


Now, You Must Endure

by Snellby



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Everything is awful for elves all the time, M/M, Slavery, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snellby/pseuds/Snellby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dorian could feel Mahanon stirring in his arms, body tensing and untensing as his hands reached out for something to hold.  Silently, the mage proffered his own hand, bringing the elf’s slender fingers to his lips, kissing them one by one.  There were so many things about the elf that were still a mystery to him; old remnants of his past that he refused to divulge, despite how close they had become in the recent months.  Dorian didn’t press, too afraid to lose what he’d tried so hard to cultivate.  There had never been anyone in his life like Mahanon...and if what he suspected about the elf was true…<br/>He would prefer not to know the answer."</p><p>The Inquisitor has been taken.  Dorian may not be able to get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soon, You Will Know Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still new to this franchise, so let me know if there's any super glaring mistakes! Haven't beaten the game yet. This could be a disaster.

_** Mala Suledin Nadas ** _

_** {Now, You Must Endure} ** _

  
  


** Chapter 1:  Soon, You Will Know Loneliness.   **

* * *

_ In his dreams, Mahanon was a wild thing.  _

_ He was the wind, the snow; the ripping, tearing, biting cold that raced through the fibres of Ferelden.  Halla galloped by his side, their white fur standing out against the thick blackness of the tree trunks, their horns twisted into intricate designs that spoke of their pasts.  Mahanon effortlessly kept pace with them, his soul flying, spirit running wild.  He could feel the hand of Ghilan’nain guiding him forward.   _

_ And then, he fell.   _

_ Sand raked against his arms as he tried to brace himself, unable to prevent his body from being sucked down into the dunes.  Heat rushed against his skin, the sun suddenly so unforgiving and harsh.  He couldn’t breathe.  Every intake into his lungs was agony.  This was nothing like home...this was...this was… _

_ The Halla tumbled around him, bursting into nothingness as they touched the sand.  Mahanon cried out, only to feel his words fall short.  He could not remember the tongue...the tongue that the Halla would understand.   The tongue of his ancestors before him.  In the place of words, there was only the shriek of the dry wind rushing through his ears.       _

_ And then all faded to black.   _

 

* * *

 

Dorian could feel Mahanon stirring in his arms, body tensing and untensing as his hands reached out for something to hold.  Silently, the mage proffered his own hand, bringing the elf’s slender fingers to his lips, kissing them one by one.  There were so many things about the elf that were still a mystery to him; old remnants of his past that he refused to divulge, despite how close they had become in the recent months.  Dorian didn’t press, too afraid to lose what he’d tried so hard to cultivate.  There had never been anyone in his life like Mahanon...and if what he suspected about the elf was true…

He would prefer not to know the answer.  

Mahanon’s eyes shot open–wide and afraid, like a fennec caught in a snare–but he quickly calmed, rolling onto his back, running his free hand over his face.   

<I’m sorry.”  He said in fluent Tevene, as he always did when they were alone.  Dorian hushed him, running a hand through his white hair, waiting for his breathing to calm.  

<It’s not your fault,  _ amatus,> _ He said.  <Sometimes the past comes to remind us at the most inopportune times.>  

Mahanon was silent after that, golden eyes staring ahead, unseeing.  Dorian contented himself with running his fingertips over the elf’s vallaslin markings, tracing the beautiful lines on his beloved’s face.  He’d been told that they were the markings of Ghilan’nain; the mother of Halla, a powerful, legendary huntress beloved by Andruil.  Dorian thought that those attributes suited Mahanon perfectly.  No one was better with a bow than he. 

And speaking of hunting...

<I’m going to head out to the forest and find something for breakfast.>  The elf said, pushing Dorian’s hand away.  He shoved the blankets aside, reaching for the first shirt and breeches he could find, shrugging them on over his smallclothes.  Dorian sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes.  

<We have plenty of food, my heart.  Come back to bed.>

Mahanon shook his head, grabbing his bow from the corner desk, his quiver of arrows hanging from a hook on the wall.  

<I need to feel wild.>  Was all he said, before flitting out of the tent. 

Not again.   

Dorian grumbled, grabbing the previous night’s robes from the floor,  haphazardly fastening the buttons and clasps, before shoving his feet into his boots.  It had been a while since Mahannon had run off into the wilds, disappearing for days on end.  Cassandra would string Dorian up by his mustache if he let the inquisitor vanish at such a crucial time as this.  They were supposed to be traveling to Nevarra to ensure that the monarchy fell into capable hands...an endeavor that Cassandra had a personal attachment to.   Muttering to himself beneath his breath, Dorian staggered out of the tent, leaving his staff at the foot of the bed, not planning on going very far...even though Mahanon was already away in the distance, effortlessly treading through the snow in bare feet.  

It wasn’t long before he was out of sight. 

After a few aggravated minutes of following the elf’s footprints, Dorian found Mahanon perched at the top of a small rocky ravine, bow drawn and at the ready...but his usually steady hands were shaking, his teeth grit in uncharacteristic anger.  The mage crept up beside him, peering through the foliage at the clearing in front of them.  But, what he saw wasn’t a ram calmly eating grass.  It wasn’t a nug rooting around in the dirt, or a fennec burrowing itself in the snow. 

No.

“Slavers.”  Dorian whispered into the wind.  

There were at least ten of them, all bulky and strong, their dark, sun-touched skin and familiar dress identifying them as Tevene.  They were well armed, and well prepared.  Aside from that, there were two wheeled cages filled with sickly looking refugees, their faces sallow and gaunt.  A few inquisition scouts were among them, bloodied and battered, their uniforms reduced to no more than rags.  

“We need to go back and get the others.”  The mage whispered as he rested a hand on Mahanon’s shoulder, but all he could feel was tense, corded muscle.  The elf was coiled like a spring, grip tightening on his bow.  Before Dorian could stop him, Mahanon had fired an arrow into the camp, and then another and another.  Suddenly everything was chaos.  The mage tried to reach out and pull his lover back, but the elf lashed out, shoving him down into the ravine.  He rolled; rocks and branches tugging at his clothes and hair, scratching at his skin.  Screams echoed in his ears as he tried to right himself, dizzy and disoriented, only to feel something hard crack against his temple.

The world instantly became black.  

 

 


	2. Those That Will Aid You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will have shorter chapters, just because I'm super busy, but here's an update!

**Chapter 2:  Those That Will Aid You**

* * *

  


Dorian came to in fits and bursts,  feeling warmth pooling around his forehead, soft fingertips running over the pained area.  He grit his teeth, opening his eyes to the green glow of healing magic.  Solas was hovering above him, working his magic in silence, cold fingers ghosting over split skin.   

There was blood dappled on the snow.   _His_ own blood.

Suddenly, everything was all too clear in his memory. Dorian pitched to the side, just in time to throw up the previous night’s dinner rations.  

“Stay still.”  Solas admonished, cradling his head in his lap.  A rag was brought to his mouth to wipe away the remaining bile.  “You might have a concussion.”  

Above them, Cassandra paced, eyes scanning the surrounding area, greatsword held at the ready, as if she expected to be ambushed any moment.  

“Mahanon…”  Dorian slurred, feeling slightly better as Solas continued to work his magic.  “Where is he?”  

“You do not know?”  Cassandra demanded, reeling on the mage, her fear evident in every taut muscle of her face.

“I don’t.”  Dorian replied, his stomach rolling.  “I-I...I tried to stop him from...going on one of his hunting trips...you know the ones.  But…”  

His voice faded away.  

Emotion was a troubling beast.  His upbringing in Tevinter had taught him to hide all outward feeling, to make himself nothing more than a name for people to respect.   _Dorian_ didn’t matter.   _Pavus_ mattered.  Mahanon had been the first to see him for who he was.

And now, Varric was pressing the shattered remains of the elf’s ornate ancestral bow into his hands, murmuring soft words of condolence that were almost uncharacteristic.  Dorian let out a choked sob, clutching the splintered wood to his chest.  

“Someone was camping here not too long ago.”  The dwarf said, turning to Cassandra.  “A stamped out fire, wagon tracks, a couple animal carcasses.  But no sign of the inquisitor.”

Dorian pushed Solas away, floundering in the snow as his stomach rolled and his head throbbed.  The elf grabbed him by the scruff of his cloak and pulled him back down with surprising strength.

“We sent a scout out to gather some soldiers.  They will return shortly.”  

“No.”  Dorian said stubbornly.  “They were slavers.  Mahanon attacked them...he…”

“ _Fenedhis.”_ Solas swore in elven, turning to Cassandra, whose own expression had become red with rage.

“Get Pavus back to the camp.”  She commanded.  “We need to follow their trail quickly, before we lose them in the forest.”

 

* * *

 

Shera hadn’t been a scout with the inquisition long, before she was taken.  

She had heard the rumors about slavers in the countryside, preying on the weak and hungry refugees the inquisition had sworn to protect.  There were agents in the woods whose sole purpose was stopping this from happening, but they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and slavers were good at moving unnoticed.  They were good at speed. They were good at stealth.  

Shera hadn’t stood a chance.  

The elf shifted in her manacles, working to rip small strips of cloth from the hem of her uniform.  Beside her, the inquisitor himself lay still, covered in smears of his own blood, a wound on his forehead oozing freely.  Shera pressed the cloth against it, doing her best to fasten it with the strips she’d collected.  The other scouts from her party helped as well, silent and haggard, keeping vigil over their leader as the cart jostled beneath them.  

“His hand…”  One of them whispered, a quiet human by the name of Halem.  Shera nodded, grabbing the inquisitor’s chained wrist, using the last of the make-shift bandages to hide the mark on their leader’s palm.  Nothing good would come of the slavers taking notice of it.  It could cripple the inquisition, effectively bring it to its knees, and destroy everything they had worked so hard to accomplish.  

It was then that she noticed the scars.  

Soft and silver, raised slightly above the elf’s tanned skin, crisscrossing over his entire forearm.  She showed it to the others, frowning.  

They said nothing about it.  

The air was cold and bitter, and the three inquisition scouts huddled together for warmth, relishing the extra heat afforded to them by their uniforms.  The inquisitor himself was wearing almost nothing, with even his feet bare.  They took turns watching him, waiting for him to wake up.  It seemed like an eternity before he did.   

* * *

  


_Mahanon found himself sitting around a roaring fire, watching his sister as she danced with the fine fellow she had courted while he was gone.  She was grown now, an unfamiliar face among so many others, but to see her alive and well and whole was almost too much.  He felt himself crying again, his eyes still red and sore from the last time, only hours ago.  He felt as though he was dreaming, held in the fade by the whims of some cruel demon set to torture him with false hopes._

_But he wasn’t._

_Keeper Istimaethoriel sat beside him, taking his wrist in her hand, running her fingers over the jagged silver scars standing out prominently against his skin.  Mahanon didn’t have the energy to stop her, merely using his free hand to wipe away his tears._

“ _How are you feeling?”  The Keeper asked after a long pause.  Mahanon took a moment to process her words, his mind unaccustomed to the Common dialect spoken among the dalish._

“ _This is too much.”  He said, shaking his head.   He was aware of the accent in his voice.   “But it is good to be free.”_

 _Istimaethoriel didn’t reply right away.  She merely held his wrist up to the firelight, showing off his scars, forcing him to look at them and_ _**remember.** _ _Mahanon turned away staring at the snow._

_He was cold._

“ _You will never truly be free again, Da’len.”  The keeper continued.  “The memories will keep you their prisoner forever...and you will live the rest of your life in fear.”_

“ _Surely the fear will lessen...won’t it?”_

_The Keeper didn’t reply._

_Mahanon turned his attention back to his sister as she continued to dance, moving rhythmically to the jaunty celebratory music, without a care in the world._

  
  


 


	3. The Wolf and the Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was not a leader.  He was little more than a figurehead, guided by the trusted hands of his advisors; the face of the inquisition, but not a driving force.  He was good at acting, when need be, but other than that...any proclivity for leadership that he might have once possessed, had been crushed long ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man well, that took a long time didn't it? This chapter was SO HARD TO WRITE. The good news is, is that it's twice the length as the other chapters, so there you go. Comments are really appreciated, as they help keep me writing. I might need a beta in the future to help me edit, because I am a nightmare when I edit my own things. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Chapter 3:  The Wolf and the Snake**

  


Dorian hated how helpless he felt.  

Lying prone on a bed of furs in Solas’ tent, Dorian struggled to remain conscious, the bitter taste of potions lingering in his mouth.  A small part of him knew that he was delirious, jumbled words rolling off of his tongue as he begged Mahanon to stay by his side.  

“We have enough food.”  He slurred to a very put-out Solas.  “Don’t go.”  

“I’m not going anywhere.”  The apostate replied, grinding a few sprigs of elfroot into a paste that he spread across the back of Dorian’s head wound.  

Dorian smiled, eyes glazed and unfocused.  He mumbled a few words in broken Tevene before his eyes closed.  

“Wake up.”  Solas snapped, shaking him back to consciousness.  “If you fall into the fade now, you may not return.”  

“Mahanon’s in the fade.”  Dorian mumbled softly.  “I can see him when I close my eyes.”    

Solas grabbed Dorian’s forearm, and sent a small jolt of electricity through his system, temporarily returning his clarity.

“Surely an Atlus knows the difference between his lover and a _demon_ , Pavus.”

Dorian blinked a few times, feeling tears welling in his eyes as he thought of Mahanon’s spectral face just waiting at the edges of his consciousness.  He knew it wasn’t him...he _knew_ it.  

But it hurt to leave him all the same.  

“Have they any luck?”  He asked, swallowing thickly.  His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt heavy, like cotton.

Solas sighed, rummaging around in his satchel until he found a mana potion.  He popped the cork, and swallowed its contents gracelessly, wiping the access from his lips before he returned to healing Dorian.   

“Cassandra has been searching throughout the afternoon.  All of the roads are blocked by our soldiers, but the trail is cold.  Scout Harding believes that the slavers are using some sort of magic to hide their tracks, traveling on secret paths through the forest to elude our men.  Finding the Inquisitor will take time.”  

Dorian let out a soft, strangled noise, gritting his teeth as the swelling in his brain finally subsided beneath Solas’s hands.  The world came back to him in full clarity.

“We don’t have time.”  He said, trying to untangle himself from the mess of furs.  “If they get to the water–”

“I know what happens to the elves destined for Tevinter, Dorian.”  Solas said, the hard edge to his voice cutting deep.  

“Yes but...Solas.”  Dorian murmured, hands fisting in the soft bedding.  He fought with the words bouncing around in his head, frowning deeply as he tried to articulate what he’d suspected for so long...what he’d been afraid to admit.    “It’s...Mahanon... _Fasta vass_ , this is difficult to say, and I’m not even sure if he would want me to say it, or if it’s even true but….”

Solas raised an eyebrow.  

“On with it, Dorian.”  

Dorian shook his head, and chuckled darkly.  

“I know so little about him.  I know that he’s Dalish, the best marksmen I’ve ever seen, and I know what his vallaslin mean, about the god he worships.”

Solas gave a slight scoff at that, but Dorian ignored him.  

“And yet, I also know that his body is scarred all over, though I have never asked why.  And he speaks fluent Tevene, yet he can’t read it.  I didn’t want to admit it to myself, Solas...I didn’t want to admit the reason that a Dalish elf would be so fluent in a language not spoken in the south.”

Solas nodded gravely, his lips drawn into a thin frown.  

“I suspected it as well, though he did not confide in me.  The way he carries himself, the presence I can feel all around him.  He has a strong spirit, but it is fractured, healed improperly so that it will always reflect his suffering.”  

Dorian pushed himself to his feet, still a little unsteady, reaching to grab his staff from the bedside.   

“I would never forgive myself for allowing him to return to that life.  I was there, I should have saved him.  And the thought of someone hurting him...Solas, I can’t bear it.”

After a long pause, Solas nodded, moving to gather a few supplies  into a satchel made of soft, worn halla skin.  

“Then we will go to find him on our own.”  The apostate said. “Perhaps this is a job that requires the skills of mages.”  

Dorian allowed himself a small smile as he laced up his boots.   

* * *

  


“ _Don’t give them your name, Mahanon.”_

“ _Why,_ _ **Mamae**_ _?”_

“ _Because if they don’t have it, they can’t take it from you.  Let them have a false name, so in the end, you will still be you.”_  

Mahanon opened his eyes.  

There was a starry sky above him, familiar constellations shining clearly in the cloudless winter night.  Distant voices reached his ears; the sounds of jovial drinking contrasting with the soft, fearful whispers shushing close by.  

Mahanon shifted, and the clang of metal on metal rang in his ears–

_He was a child, small and fearful, rusted metal digging mercilessly into the soft flesh of his wrists, blood dripping over his fingers in warm rivulets.  The scent of spices and unwashed bodies rose in the heat, and the bare skin of his shoulders had long ago blistered in the hot sun._

“ _This one is from the more northern plains.  A skilled marksmen, but I suppose that has little use in the common household.  Fluent in common, and educated enough, it seems.  He could be a good assistant, if need be.”_

_Hands ran over his skin, through his matted hair, over his cheeks.  They inspected his teeth, murmuring about how healthy he was, conversing among themselves, ignoring him as though he was merely a pig they were selecting to butcher.  Mahanon felt his cheeks burn with shame, tears welling in his eyes as they went on and on, several of the gathered men offering dollar amounts with casual grace._

_This was his future....his new world.  His days of running among the pines, of lazing in the grass by the river as his mother told him old Dalish stories….those days were gone–_

“Ser, please stay calm.”

A soft hand gently pressed against his chest, pushing him back against a hard wooden surface.  He hissed in pain as his ribs protested, and the hand snapped back as though burned.

“I’m sorry, Ser.”   The voice said.  Mahanon opened his eyes to see a young elf with a round face and ruddy complection hovering over him.  She wore the uniform of an inquisition scout, though it was missing chunks from the hem and the sleeves.

Three more scouts surrounded him, looking haggard and worn. All of them were shackled like dogs.

“It’s –It’s a-alright.”  Mahanon stammered, trying to regain his breath as his memories flitted away.  

He was in a slaver’s cart, just one soul among many, surrounded by tired, huddled figures.  Most of them were elven, a few with the bare faces of city elves, though the majority were Dalish.

“Ser Pavus…”  He began, continuing to scan the cart for any sign of his lover.  “Is he here?”

“You attacked the camp alone.”  The scout–Shera, if Mahanon recalled correctly–replied.  “If Ser Pavus was with you, they did not find him.”

The inquisitor leaned back with a sigh, flinching as his ribs protested.  His head was pounding, but the world wasn’t spinning, so he fortunately wasn’t concussed.  A small mercy.

The night sky was beautiful in the south.  

“What should we do, Ser?”   

Mahanon turned to look at Shera and the other scouts, frowning as his mind raced.  

He was not a leader.  He was little more than a figurehead, guided by the trusted hands of his advisors; the face of the inquisition, but not a driving force.  He was good at acting, when need be, but other than that...any proclivity for leadership that he might have once possessed, had been crushed long ago.  

But here, in this cart, surrounded by the very Fereldans that he had sworn to protect, as well as some of his own men, Mahanon knew that he would have to do _something_.  He turned his attention to a young elvhen mother clutching her small children, and thought of his own mamae.   _Remembered_ her.  

He remembered how she always smelled of pine.  How she could carve any scraggly tree branch into a bow that would make arrows soar.  He remembered sitting on her lap, watching as she pressed symbols and creatures into the bow that would someday be his own, and he remembered her singing softly as she worked, old elven hymns rolling like spun gold from her lips.   

“ _Melava inan enasal,_

_ir su aravel tu elraval_

_u na emma abelas,_

_in elgar sa vir mana,”_

“Ser Pavus was with me when I was taken.  He...If he is not here he...might have gotten help.”  

One of the scouts–a dark-haired, thin whip of a man–scoffed.  Mahanon turned to him the best that he could, clutching a hand to his straining ribs.  

“Terrel.”  Shera hushed, but the man would not be cowed.  

“Ser Pavus is a Tevinter _Magister._ He probably planned this to get you out of the way, and make some extra coin.”  

Mahanon lay in silence for a moment, glaring at the young man as his emotions swirled.  He thought of the other morning, when Dorian had held him in his arms, and kissed him softly, whispering nothings into his ears, his breath ghosting across their sensitive tips.  He could still feel the white-hot anger and rage that had clouded his vision as he aimed his bow at the slaver’s camp...remembered Dorian reaching for his shoulder, trying to stop him..  

“ _We need to go back and get the others.”_

He remembered pushing him into the ravine.    

“We don’t have time for this.”  Mahanon hissed.  “If you don’t believe that Ser Pavus will bring a search party, then spend your time finding another way out.  We don’t have the time to sit idle.     Once we reach Tevinter...”

Words suddenly  failed him.

The cold wrapping around him was the only thing stopping him from falling into the memories of Tevinter’s oppressive heat.  The dust, the spices, the perfumes...all of it.  With each rattle of a chain he was dragged deeper and deeper, his mind panicking silently as he realised what would be lost if he didn’t do something...and soon.  Everyone was depending on him...but he was too busy being the scared, frightened boy he had been so long ago.

“ _You will never truly be free again, Da’len.”_  

Terrel didn’t say another word, choosing instead to look off into the distance as Shera and the other two scouts began whispering ideas amongst each other.  Mahanon listened in, tugging purposefully  at the cloth that covered his palm.  He knew what he had to do…

With great effort, he began pulling himself to his feet.  


End file.
